‘His full name was Vlad III Dracula,’ Ginie went on. ‘Some people think that he was the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula.’ Everyone was listening now. She could feel Stravinsky’s gaze on her.
‘So, you know of Vlad?’ she asked the table at large.
‘Yes, of course. He’s terribly famous.’
‘Or rather, famously terrible?’
‘Didn’t he dine among his impaled victims, dipping his bread in their blood?’
Uneasy laughter rippled around the table. Ginie sipped at her champagne, thinking about Rosa, about her strength and her ruthlessness. She had certainly inherited her share of the Impaler’s genes.
‘Actually, he was one of history’s most misunderstood rulers,’ she said. ‘Imagine spending your teenage years as a political prisoner of the Ottoman Empire.’ Her eyes moved from person to person as she spoke, catching and holding their attention. ‘Vlad was taken hostage to secure his father’s loyalty to the Ottomans – Vlad Senior ruled a war-stricken region in another country.’
‘I never knew,’ said George.
‘Yes, and when he was finally allowed to go home, he was told his father and older brother had been murdered by Walachian nobles. Vlad then started a lifelong campaign to get his father’s seat back.’
She hesitated, stirring sugar into a fresh glass of champagne and waited for someone else to take up the conversation. No one did. Her guests were probably wondering what outlandish remarks would come out of her mouth next. She glanced at Stephen, who was seated at the head of the table between Olivia and Violet. She saw that no help would come from him.
So, with a long, sideways look at Stravinsky, she said, ‘I’ll tell you another thing about Vlad. He was famous for his cruelty, but it wasn’t simply cruelty for its own sake. He used impaling to terrorise the enemy attacking his country. You could argue that he wasn’t exceptionally evil; he was just doing what was necessary to fight a much bigger military power.’
Silence fell.
‘Well, you have taught me something new,’ said Stravinsky, at last.
‘There is actually something else,’ answered Ginie. ‘When an archaeological dig was carried out at his grave, they found royal garments and a ring, but there was no body.’
A shiver went round the table and Ginie was satisfied that she had played up to their perception of her. It was infinitely more amusing than being a wallflower, or filling up the silence with meaningless small talk.
Stravinsky was getting more and more on edge as his performance drew near, he kept flexing and un-flexing his hands, only picking at his food. Immediately after the main course, he rose to his feet, thanked Ginie and Stephen and said his goodbyes. Everyone wished him luck as he left for the Queen’s Hall. He thanked them, though his face was ashen.
‘This cold, damp weather is terrible for the hands. My fingers feel so clumsy, I hope they can find the right keys.’
When the meal was finished, Ginie took the women to the drawing room and turned on the wireless so they could hear him play. As the music flowed into the room, she saw them exchange looks she could not decipher. Olivia made a strangled noise that sounded like a snigger, which she quickly turned into a cough. They listened quietly. It was a relief not to have to talk.
The men came in and Stephen said, ‘What on earth are you doing listening to the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra?’
No one spoke. Violet and Olivia’s eyes were turned carefully to the paintings, the ornaments or their fingernails. Ginie realised her blunder and coloured from her chest to the roots of her hair. Stephen went to the radio and twiddled the tuning knob until he found Stravinsky. The Concerto rang out, hard and cold; moving forward relentlessly, with great percussive chords on the piano.
‘Listening to this makes me feel like I’m riding on a train, or some kind of gigantic industrial machine and I can’t get off,’ observed Olivia.
‘The piano part is extremely challenging,’ said Stephen. ‘No wonder the poor chap was nervous.’
Ginie was mortified that no one had said anything about her mistake. She could imagine the phone call in the morning between Violet and Olivia. They would have a wonderful time laying bare her ignorance about music. The dinner had not been the success she’d hoped for. She could feel the spectre of her mother, mocking her.
Everything turns to dust in your hands, doesn’t it? I always knew you were worthless.
10
Ginie, Italy, 1910s
Ginie and Paulo honeymooned in Egypt, floating down the Nile in a barge and riding camels into the desert to see the Pyramids. They were woken at five by the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, made love and lay naked in the sun on the balcony of their hotel room until their skins were tanned a rich brown. They gambled and lost at Baccarat, took hundreds of photographs, shopped for books, brass statuettes, fabrics, carpets, Turkish coffee cups and a platinum ring engraved with roses.
They felt adventurous and free and full of hope for the future. But as soon as they got back to Liguria, Ugo set Paulo to work on family affairs, mainly running a group of landed properties in Ovadese. Ugo devised one small, unimportant task after another and made sure Paulo carried them out, while at the same time maintaining complete control of the assets. Ginie saw at once that it was a way of keeping Paulo fettered. His unquestioning obedience to his father dismayed her. Evidently he had managed to move far enough away from his privileged world to marry her, but not far enough to strike out on his own. Perhaps the effort it had taken to weather his parents’ disapproval had used up all his energy. In her mind, she called up the Paulo she had met: handsome and independent-minded, seeming to understand her, to share the same goals. Surely that was the real Paulo? She needed a stronger man and was waiting for the person she had fallen in love with to assert himself.
‘Do you really have to go to Ovadese every time your Papa says so?’ she asked one morning, as she watched him getting ready. They were living in the same villa the Peiranos had rented – Riccardo and Rosa had moved to a large house in Santa Margherita. Paulo was working lotion into his hair; he turned from the mirror to face Ginie lounging in bed.
‘Papa pays me for it,’ he said. ‘Let’s just be happy with what we’ve got, alright? Unless you’d rather make do without the money.’
Their eyes met unpleasantly. If Paulo had wanted his freedom and been prepared to look for work elsewhere, Ginie would have sacrificed the allowance. But she couldn’t galvanise him into action and give up her comfortable life – she wasn’t strong enough for both. So she said nothing and watched him carry on with his preparations, noticing small tics she felt she should have noticed before. As he straightened his tie, his hands shook slightly. It seemed a sign of weakness, that tremor. He was checking his reflection in the mirror. Surely, it wasn’t manly to care so much about your appearance? She wondered bleakly if she had been deluding herself. He left, kissing her on the forehead.
A dove called in the garden, a lonely sound. Another dove murmured throatily in return. Ginie stretched both arms above her head and wondered how to fill the vacant hours ahead of her. They were dining with Ugo and Solferina that evening, but she had nothing to do until then. They saw Paulo’s parents for supper two or three times a week and went to mass with them on Sundays. Before her marriage, Ginie had imagined the world of the Genovese nobility was full of wonders, but the reality was very different. She hadn’t simply married Paulo, but a whole family.
She could hear Elena, her maid, go into the bathroom and begin tidying up. Elena used to be Solferina’s personal maid, but Solferina had insisted that she look after Ginie now. Elena was a tiny old woman with shrewd dark eyes and a face so lined, it looked as if someone had drawn a road map of Italy on her cheeks. Ginie heard her click her tongue and wondered if she had seen the sanitary towels in the rubbish basket. Ginie harboured a growing suspicion that Elena was spying on her. No doubt she would report back to Solferina that another month had passed without sign of the eagerly anticipated
Spinola heir.
Anger and shame bubbled in Ginie’s stomach. With the elder brother, Franco, away at sea and showing no inclination to settle down, the pressure of producing a child to carry on the noble name had fallen squarely on her and Paulo. Pouff, their black poodle, came into the room and nuzzled into her side, wanting her to get up. She stroked his woolly head and told him she’d be up soon, while he gazed at her with human eyes. It was still early days, she assured herself. Nobody would suspect anything was wrong with her yet. She had time to work out what to do.
When they weren’t with Paulo’s parents, they spent their evenings at parties and fashionable restaurants. At weekends, they visited the Portofino Kulm Hotel, which Ginie loved because of its luxurious decoration and modern gadgets and the Miramare at Santa Margherita; the first grand hotel in the area to have its own beach resort. There were special car trips to Turin and Spezia.
They went on a spending spree for their villa, buying antique furniture, paintings and ornaments in silver, crystal, porcelain and majolica, a handful of modern appliances such as a freezer and a gramophone. Some of these came from Genoese and local suppliers, while others were purchased from abroad, most often from London or Paris. For a time, there was a continuous to and fro of goods, many of them difficult to transport being bulky or fragile, and the long-suffering Malerba had his hands full with complicated bureaucratic and customs transactions and transport.
Ginie tried to keep moving, so that she wouldn’t have to think too deeply about anything. She was perched at the edge of a chasm that kept threatening to open at her feet, sending her spiralling into darkness.
One morning, Ginie decided on the spur of the moment to visit her parents in Santa Margherita. It was midday by the time she got there, the sun bore down on her bare head and the shadows in their courtyard lay dense and thick. A servant opened the front door and told her that Rosa and Riccardo were out for the morning.
She decided to wait for them in her father’s study, a cool, high-ceilinged room with French doors opening onto the garden. She missed Riccardo and the room was full of him – his books, his collection of model ships, even his smell: lemon and spice.
She sat down at his desk and ran her hands over the inkstand and blotting pad. She picked up his dark blue fountain pen and twisted it in her hands. A breeze from the sea drifted in, stirring the pile of letters on his desk. She began to peruse the one on top. . . her pulse quickened as she realised it was from Malerba. She picked it up.
I would be grateful if you would confirm in writing at your earliest convenience that in addition to the dowry that has been set and paid, you have agreed to write a cheque to Marchese Paulo Spinola, annually for the next five years, for the sum of eighteen thousand lire. Payment should be made on the first day of January to the following account. . .
Ginie stopped reading. Her face was burning, she felt sick. She crunched the letter up in her hands, realizing how completely she had been sold. She vowed that a day would come when she wouldn’t be anyone’s goods. Not her parents’, not her husband’s. She had no idea how she was going to get there, but she would be her own woman. She couldn’t face Riccardo or Rosa now. Rising to her feet, she walked quickly to the front door, opened it and stepped out into the bright morning.
Now that she was their daughter-in-law, Ugo and Solferina were trying their best to accept Ginie. On a warm evening in spring, the four of them were finishing supper in the dining room at the Villa Spinola. The many candles in the room made the air unpleasantly hot and stuffy.
‘Luca – could I have more wine?’ Ginie asked the footman. She had been drinking steadily all evening.
‘Ginie, mia cara, his proper name, please,’ reminded Solferina as he refilled Ginie’s glass. Ginie had used his Christian name, and the Spinolas addressed their servants more formally by their surnames.
‘Apologies,’ said Ginie breezily, ‘I keep forgetting.’
‘Anyhow, perhaps you’ve had enough to drink now?’ Solferina’s tone was solicitous. ‘It isn’t good for your health, you know.’
‘Thank you for your concern, Mama. I am perfectly healthy.’
‘You’re looking a little thin, my dear. Are you getting plenty of rest and eating properly?’ Solferina was gazing at Ginie with real tenderness. Perhaps she was remembering the early days of her own marriage? But Ginie seethed with resentment because Solferina was interfering again.
‘Of course I’m eating,’ she replied sweetly. ‘But good food is so much better with plenty of good wine, don’t you think?’ It was satisfying to watch Solferina’s mouth pucker in disapproval. She made a few animated comments about the weather in a tense voice. Paulo answered in the same manner, which was so unlike his real self that it increased the awkwardness at the table. Ugo was eating his poached oranges steadily, his eyes narrowed, looking at the food.
‘Father Bruno has offered to hold a private mass for the two of you,’ Solferina began, after another lull. ‘I thought perhaps next week?’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Ginie.
‘He wants to offer prayers for a long and healthy marriage, blessed with children.’
‘Really Mama, that’s hardly necessary!’ Paulo protested.
Ginie had a sudden vision of years of stultifying meals with Ugo and Solferina stretching out in front of her. She wanted something different – a bigger kind of life. A knot of anxiety constricted her chest and everything wavered. She leaned forwards and set her glass on the table, but made contact with a bump on the lace cloth. The glass tilted, red wine slopping dangerously close to the rim. Paulo quickly took it from her.
‘I wish you wouldn’t provoke Mama,’ he said on the walk home.
‘I wish your mother wouldn’t provoke me. Can’t you see how humiliating it is that my womb is everyone’s business?’ Ginie cried.
He sighed deeply and rubbed the side of his mouth. ‘I know she’s a bit much, but she means well.’
Suddenly, Ginie was contrite. ‘Oh, Paulo, I know! It’s just that she expects me to behave in a certain way and it’s not me, don’t you see?’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘If only you and I could be properly alone together. I feel watched all the time – I can’t breathe.’
He didn’t reply. Below them, the lights of Rapallo shimmered. The moon was rising, casting its reflection on the gentle ripples of the sea. Ginie wondered why she and Paulo were always going against the grain of each other. He had fallen in love with her because she was unconventional and fearless, but if she was too unconventional, he didn’t like it. The window of what was palatable was so narrow.
They began to stay in Genoa for weeks at a time, living in an apartment that belonged to the Spinolas in the Piazza della Meridiana. It was Paulo’s idea and it restored Ginie’s faith in him. He had finally asserted himself with his father and insisted on a degree of autonomy. Ugo seemed to accept it. Even he recognised that there was strain in the marriage and they needed space.
At first, Ginie was content in Genoa. Paulo tried hard to please her and there was much to see and do. They went to the cinema and the theatre; they shopped for clothes and luxury goods and they discovered a new hobby – gambling. They’d had a taste of it in Egypt, but in Genoa it became a regular activity. More often than not, they lost, gradually amassing debts they couldn’t pay off. They tried to win back the losses, believing that if they could ride it out their luck would turn, but they only succeeded in piling up bigger debts. Then, Italy joined the Great War and Paulo signed up as a voluntary driver in the Automobile Company of the Torino Artillery. He began his training and they were separated for weeks at a time.
One morning, towards the end of his first leave, Ginie woke late. Her mouth was sour with stale alcohol. Her tongue felt thick and furred. The light coming in at the edges of the blinds hurt her eyes. Paulo was sitting up in bed, watching her. The expression on his face was hard to read.
‘I guess that wasn’t our finest night,’ he said.
The memory of it swam b
ack through a wave of nausea. She swallowed.
‘I guess not.’
‘How much did we lose?’
She was silent working it out. ‘A thousand lire. Maybe one thousand five hundred.’
Paulo let out a breath.
‘We can’t afford to keep this up.’ It was the first time he had admitted that they might not be able to win back their losses. ‘We’d better stop. It has gone beyond what we can handle.’
She shook her head slowly. She felt adrift, not knowing what it was she needed. She accepted that they couldn’t carry on like this, but while she was sitting at the roulette table, the thrill of it coursing through her veins, she was happy. Gambling was her place to forget.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Paulo.
She shivered.
‘You’re cold.’ He put a hand on her stomach. ‘When you get pregnant, everything will be better, you’ll see. We won’t even feel like going to the casino.’
She clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. The shame of her barrenness was choking her. Paulo’s hand moved lower, rubbing in slow circles. ‘Let’s work on it.’ His voice was thickening. ‘Before I go back to camp.’
She flicked his hand away. ‘Stop treating me as if I’m a breeding mare.’
He gave her a sharp look and suddenly everything about her was out of control. Her head was pounding and her limbs felt wobbly.
‘Haven’t you realized by now that I can’t have a child?’ she cried. She didn’t know where the words had come from, but finally, there was truth between them.
‘What do you mean?’ Paulo’s face was white.
‘My womb is damaged. I can’t get pregnant.’ Her anger was gone, there was only heaviness in her limbs.
He was staring at her with tormented eyes. ‘Did you know this when we got married?’
She nodded wretchedly. ‘I am sorry, Paulo.’
Something in his face changed. A screen went up, barely there, yet impenetrable. She stretched out to touch his cheek, but he shrank away. He got out of bed, pulled on a shirt and a pair of trousers and left the room. Moments later, she heard the front door slam shut and was struck by the magnitude of what she had just done. A relationship could be destroyed in seconds. There was a dull ache in her chest. She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. More than anything, she wanted to take the words back.
The Dragon Lady Page 6